Selene paced the room like a restless cat, phone in hand, nails tapping furiously against the screen.

Ring… ring… ring…

Voicemail. Again.

“Damian, pick up your phone!” she snapped at the device.

She sent the tenth message. And the eleventh. And the twelfth.

By the fifteenth attempt, she was breathing hard.

“Where could he be by this time?” she muttered, hugging herself. “What kind of man ignores his pregnant fiancée at 2 a.m.?”

Half an hour later, the front door clicked open.

Damian stumbled in drunk, messy, smelling like whiskey and the night.

Selene marched toward him.

“Where have you been? I called. I texted. You didn’t reply! Damian, did...